


We're All Mad Here

by whitchry9



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Alternate Meeting, Friendship, Gen, Hospital, PTSD, Panic Attacks, Undercover, mental health, questionable insanity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-22
Updated: 2014-05-08
Packaged: 2018-01-16 15:19:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 15,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1352209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whitchry9/pseuds/whitchry9
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which John got sectioned after he came back from Afghanistan, Sherlock may or may not be undercover (otherwise delusional), Molly has to deal with them all, and John would like to go home. </p><p>AU. Written for a prompt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sometimes an Appropriate Response

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt located here: http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/21766.html?thread=130594054#t130594054

**It is sometimes an appropriate response to reality to go insane. -Philip K Dick**

* * *

 

 

Reflecting on his surroundings, John wasn't sure how he came to be there.

He obviously knew, of course, the physical journey that had led him there, he was oriented x3 thank you very much. It was the other sort of journey, the circumstances and actions and decisions, all those fun things, that he was a bit blurry on.

(But not confused or delusional. He was just missing some facts.)

 

It was probably due to the fact that he wasn't the one who'd made those decisions. Far too many of them had been out of his hands, whether by force, or by lack of caring... well, or anything really. Honestly, John could have lived through it multiple times, and still never understood quite how it happened. (But he didn't want to. Once was enough.)

 

He supposed it was mostly the whirlwind nature of how he'd come about being trapped in the lovely place that he was in now. He'd blinked and... there it was, him just sort of stuck in the middle of it with no clue what had happened.

 

He told Molly that at their next meeting.

“I'm still not entirely sure what I'm doing here,” he sighed, not for the first time.

Molly frowned at him. “John, you shot a chip and pin machine after living in London for less than a week. This was after being invalided home from a war zone with a gunshot to the shoulder, and a suddenly developing pain in your leg. A war zone, I might mention, that you were never supposed to see.”

John shrugged. “So what?”

Molly rolled her eyes at him. “That is a pattern. The doctors at the hospital who treated you for the gunshot noticed your behaviours. They did multiple psych evals before discharging you, and the results are all pointing to the same things that I'm seeing now. And everything you did in that week, that single week before you shot _a bloody chip and pin machine,_ points to the same thing.”

“What's that?” he asked with feigned disinterest.

“You're not okay,” she said firmly. “You may tell yourself that, you may think that, you may even act like that most of the time, but that doesn't make it true.”

John shrugged. “If you pretend something so long that you start to believe it, does that make it true?”

 

Molly didn't have an answer for him.

She just made notes on her page, carefully tipped away from him, and continued on with the session.

John was slightly less than pleased about that.

 

* * *

 

After Molly didn't answer some more of his probing questions, he was finally sent on his way.

He meandered towards the day room, which was where everyone else seemed to be.

John chose a chair near the window, facing the room.

So maybe Molly was right about him having trust issues, but he was a soldier, and didn't want anyone sneaking up on him. If he was startled, he could possibly kill someone. That _terrified_ him.

The corner it was then.

 

It was early afternoon, and most residents had ventured out of their rooms partake in whatever the daily activity was, or possibly to squabble over the telly. It often ended up being between football and game shows, but John knew the unspoken rule that if Doctor Who was on, they would be watching it, no complaints.

The afternoon would pass much the same way. Then it would be dinner, then after dinner was group therapy, then the nothingness resumed until bedtime.

Waking up, breakfast, individual therapy or other treatment like art therapy, lunch, individual therapy...

And repeat.

 

Today the activity was something involving clay. John wasn't sure he wanted to know, especially because he was certain he saw one of the residents eating some. At least it was _probably_ non-toxic.

 

The Sussex Downs Mental Health Facility was just a fancy way of saying loony bin.

Which, John reflected upon surveying his surroundings, wasn't entirely inaccurate.

Currently in the day room were a number of residents John had gotten to know over the past little while. There was an old woman who was blind, and simply couldn't cope after her son died. John felt bad for her. There was a man with severe OCD who always wore his hat and chewed on one of the bobbles. He had a propensity for trains, and god help anyone who said anything against them. There was a severely depressed man who could make the piano sing like it was holding a song deep inside, longing to be freed. They were mournful, longing, songs. There was a man in the room at the end of the hall that John had heard things about, things that made his skin crawl.

 

Some of them spoke to people who weren't there. Most of them were nice.

Like Greg, who was world weary and almost always exhausted, the stress of his job evident in his silver hair.

 

“John! Thoroughly dissected after your session too, I should hope.”

“Greg,” John nodded. “Pull up a chair.”

Lestrade obliged, pulling another armchair next to John's, safely in the corner.

John liked the older man. He was on the police force, detective work, and John had read about him in the papers. The word was that he 'lost it' after a number of serial suicides went unsolved, and then just suddenly stopped, with no apparent cause.

Of course, that was what the papers said, so it could be the furthest thing from the truth.

 

“Not interested in the clay... thing?” Greg asked.

John snorted. “Not particularly, no.”

“Me neither. Reminds me of when my nephew used to play with that stuff. He managed to get it in his hair once. It was awful. He's a teenager now, which probably just means he's into worse things.”

John smiled. “Do you have any kids?”

Greg shook his head. “It was hard to balance family with my crazy work schedule. Probably explains why the wife sought out someone else for companionship,” he noted, a hint of bitterness in his voice. “What about you?”

John laughed. “Nope. I've been painfully single for most of my life, except for a couple wholly unsuccessful dates and a one night stand when we were both majorly drunk. Of course, it didn't help that most of the army is still blokes.”

Lestrade chuckled. “No, I suppose not.”

They sat in silence for a moment, watching as a piece of green clay was sampled, and rejected in favour of the yellow.

“Well John, what are you in for? I suppose it's about the time we talk about those things. Not like there's a guidebook on the stages of friend making in psych hospitals.”

John snorted. “I'm sure there'd be a market for that.”

Greg raised an eyebrow. “So?”

“You go first,” John told him.

Lestrade shrugged. “Alright. So you probably read about it in the papers. The serial suicides. That case drove me mad. I couldn't stop thinking about it. People kept dying, and we still had nothing. I wanted to get outside help but-” he hesitated. “Nothing helped. In the end, nine people were dead, and then they just... stopped. I may have come a bit unhinged,” he admitted.

John raised an eyebrow. “They wouldn't have stuck you in here just for that.”

“Might've tried to take a swan dive into the Thames,” he admitted gruffly.

“Ah,” John nodded. “Can't say I didn't think about that, but I never got around to doing it.”

Lestrade smiled. “Quid pro quo,” he said. “Your turn.”

John chose his words carefully. “I was shot in Afghanistan, so after a lengthy recovery in military hospitals, I arrived home a week before... well, before I was sectioned.” He sighed heavily. “There was a slight incident in a Tesco's involving me, a self checkout machine, and my gun.”

Lestrade's eyes widened. “That was you? Wow. I heard about that.”

John groaned and covered his eyes with his hands. “Great. That's fantastic. I've got a reputation as the insane chip and pin murderer.”

“Only among the police, if that helps,” Lestrade offered. “Pretty sure you're not known among the general population for murdering innocent machines.”

“It was hardly innocent,” John grumbled. “I wouldn't have shot it if it was innocent.”

Lestrade laughed. “Fair enough.”

They sat back in their respective armchairs and surveyed the room.

“Sure you don't want to play with the clay?” Greg asked wryly.

“Positive,” John confirmed.

“Well, in that case, you're on your own mate.” He clapped John on the shoulder, which made him wince, before heading over to the arts and crafts table.

John could only shake his head.

 


	2. An Expert in One Field

**If I could be an expert in just one arcane and madness inducing field of study, it would be you. -A Softer World**

* * *

 

Mike escorted another resident into the room, which was unusual, since the floor had quite a bit of freedom. The man couldn't have been more than thirty, with dark unruly hair. He threw himself onto the small sofa that normally sat three people, and stretched himself out lengthwise. He reminded John of a cat, sun tanning. The man was wearing pyjamas, his grey shirt inside out, and on top was a silky dressing gown.

It wasn't unusual to see patients in their pyjamas during the day, but it was usually the catatonic or the elderly patients that tended towards not wearing clothes. This man was neither, all angles and sharp edges, except for his hair, which was curled wildly.

Still, he didn't seem to be bothered at all by his appearance. Perhaps he was a depressive, and just didn't care?

 

John was thankful that they let him wear his clothes. Comfortable jumpers, jeans (no belts of course, and no shoelaces either, even though John knew if someone really wanted to kill themselves, that wasn't going to stop them), and his own socks went a long way to making him feel human.

Perhaps this other man didn't feel the same way.

But there was a glint in his eye that make John suspect he wasn't depressed, at least not so severely that he'd be hard pressed to get dressed in the morning. He'd seen people like that, and this man wasn't one of them. (The man who could play the piano like anyone else could breathe, he looked like that. Sometimes at least.)

Perhaps he was psychotic or delusional, and had no clue what time it was or what he was wearing.

Again, there was something in his eye that made John suspect otherwise.

 

“You've been staring for a while.”

John's head snapped up. The man he'd been scrutinizing for... oh god how long had it been, was staring back at him with an amused smile on his face.

“Something you wanted to ask?” he continued.

“Trying to work out why you're in pyjamas,” John muttered.

The man stood up and relocated himself in the chair directly across from John.

“And what did you come up with?”

John shook his head. “Nothing.”

The man smirked. “You looked an awfully long time for coming up with nothing. Go on, tell me.”

“Well,” John began. “You're not catatonic or elderly, which is a main reason why people aren't dressed. You also don't appear to be severely depressed, and now that I've spoken to you, I'm pretty sure you're not delusional or psychotic. So the best I can come up with is you simply don't care.”

The man examined John for a moment, and then smiled broadly.

“Indeed. That I don't.” He held a hand out. “Sherlock Holmes.”

John hesitated, but shook it. “John Watson.”

“Well, John Watson. Afghanistan or Iraq?”

John startled. “What?”

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” the man repeated, more slowly, and with an air of impatience.

“Afghanistan, how did you-”

“PTSD too I suppose. Psychosomatic limp. Oh, and let me guess, you didn't adjust well to civilian life. Your brother had you sectioned by claiming you were a threat to yourself and others, but I suspect he just wanted you out of the house to spend time cheating on his wife without you around. And the drinking, of course,” he added. “It's easier to be an alcoholic when you're not dealing with a traumatized war veteran. Best to just ship him out.”

John gaped at this strange man. “Have you been speaking to Molly?”

“Who?”

“My therapist. Molly Hooper?”

“Oh, Molly,” Sherlock said dismissively. “No. No one told me any of that.”

“So you guessed?”

Sherlock looked insulted. “I never guess.”

“Then how did you know?”

“I don't know, I notice.”

John raised an eyebrow. “Oh really?” he said skeptically, offering an opportunity for Sherlock to explain himself, which he did, smiling before he launched into a tirade at break neck speed.

“Your haircut, the way you hold yourself, not to mention you're sitting in the paranoid chair with a view of the whole room, says military. No tan above the wrist means you've been abroad but not sunbathing. Combine those things with the fact that you're here, and it says wounded in action.” He pointed to the cane. “Where can an army doctor get himself wounded in action these days? Afghanistan or Iraq.”

“How did you know I was a doctor?”

Sherlock glanced away. “I may have heard a nurse refer to you as Doctor Watson,” he admitted. “But that's all. The rest was me. And when you did your initial diagnosis on me, that required medical knowledge, so I could have figured it out from that.”

“But you didn't.”

“I could have,” he insisted.

John rolled his eyes. “Of course. How did you know about Harry?”

“The visitor log. He's only visited you once since you've been here, which suggests not a great relationship. But you're fine with that, aren't you. The signature was shaky, like he needed a drink. Considering he came in the morning, that would suggest a bit of a drinking problem, wouldn't it. But his wife didn't come to visit you. If you liked the wife, she would have come, no matter what your brother said. But she's obviously mad with your brother, likely because he's been cheating. Or maybe the drinking.” He shrugged. “Not enough data.”

 

John sat back in his chair. “That... was... amazing.”

Sherlock seemed genuinely shocked. “Really?”

“Of course it was. It was bloody amazing.”

“... That's not what people normally say,” Sherlock muttered. He seemed baffled.

“What do people normally say?”

“Piss off.”

John stared at Sherlock in amazement. He didn't understand how anyone could ever say that to this mad fabulous man. How did they not simply gape in awe at what he could do?

 

Sometimes John wondered (not, not just sometimes, _often_ ) why he was the one locked up. Frankly, as far as he was concerned, it was the rest of the world that was mad.

(Which is probably what a mad person would think.)

 

“Did I get anything wrong?” Sherlock asked.

John considered it. “Harry and I don't get on, never have, but it was a place to live after I got back, and I really couldn't refuse. Harry and Clara made the mutual decision to get me help after I shot a chip and pin machine. Harry's a drinker.”

Sherlock looked thrilled. “Spot on then. I didn't expect to get everything right.”

“Harry's my sister,” John added.

“Sister,” Sherlock hissed. “ _Sister!_ There's always something.”

John shrugged. “Impressive though.”

“Sister...” he muttered again. He waved a hand. “No mind. So John Watson. Why are you here?...”

He said it in a way that John knew meant he wasn't actually asking, just leading into another of his mad explanation.

“Soldier.”

John nodded.

“PTSD then.”

John nodded again.

“And some anger issues.”

John shrugged.

“Psychosomatic limp,” Sherlock added, looking pointedly at John's cane.

“Feels real to me,” John replied.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “That's the definition.”

John shrugged.

“In conclusion, generally not coping well with civilian life.”

John held his hands out.

“I suppose that sums it up pretty well. Spot on.”

Sherlock hummed, rather pleased with himself.

“Of course, you missed the depression.”

Sherlock blinked. “Didn't I mention that?”

John shook his head.

“Ah. Well, sometimes my brain works faster than my mouth. It's hardly my fault.”

John smirked. “Sure.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Well, now that you know everything about me, what about you?”

Sherlock leaned in conspiratorially. “I am but mad, north north west,” he whispered to John.

“That's from Hamlet,” John said, recognizing the passage.

Sherlock nodded. “With that, I'm gone.”

John opened his mouth to ask, but he needn't.

“For England!” Sherlock bellowed, skipping across the room and swooping down the hall like some enormous bird.

John watched him go out of sight with faint bemusement.

 

“I wouldn't take anything he says too seriously. Or get too close.” John turned in his chair to see Sally Donovan, one of the orderlies.

John frowned at Sally. “Why?”

She sighed. “Because he's a psychopath. There's not much for him to do in here, and he'll get bored. And when he gets bored, he gets dangerous. It's best to stay out of the line of fire.”

John nodded once. “Right. Thanks.”

Sally shrugged. “No problem.”

The pager on her hip beeped, and she left him without another word.


	3. Madness in Great Ones

**Madness in great ones must not unwatched go. -Shakespeare**

* * *

 

John didn't see the strange man for the rest of the day, which he figured was expected, since the man went flouncing around like he was mad. Perhaps he'd been wrangled and sedated, or sent to another therapy session, assuming Mike had dropped him off in the day room after already having one.

But he didn't really think about it.

 

He ate dinner with Lestrade, went to group therapy, managed to not kill anyone there, which was quite an accomplishment, since the day before he had to limp out or risk strangling another resident.

Bed, and _repeat._

 

Sherlock showed up the next day at lunch, in the same clothes (pyjamas) as the day before. He didn't mention where he was the previous night or at breakfast.

 

Instead he asked John if he'd ever seen a dead body.

John had to push himself away from the table, stumble down the hallway, and vomit in a loo, the memory of so much misplaced warm blood surrounding him.

Of course he'd seen a dead body, he was a doctor. He was a doctor who went to _war._ He saw worse than dead. He saw bodies that should have been dead, but kept breathing, kept crying out. He saw bodies that didn't even look like bodies anymore, parts missing, inside out, and yet they kept breathing.

_He was almost one of them._

Yes, John had seen a dead body.

 

He assumed that Lestrade had spoken to him, because by the time John returned, pale faced and shaky, Sherlock instead spoke about bees.

John supposed that was his version of an apology, and accepted it by asking about the production of honey, which made Sherlock light up and speak for nearly an hour.

 

They didn't speak of the incident.

 

* * *

 

It was nearly a week later when John worked up the courage to ask.

 

“You never did tell me what you were in here for Sherlock. You figured me out from a glance, so would you care to enlighten me?”

Sherlock's smirk said that yes, he would mind in fact, but he spoke anyway.

“My diagnoses run the gamut,” he drawled, “All the way from multiple substance addictions to bipolar, back again to schizophrenia, and then usually settle on personality disorders. Antisocial, narcissistic, that sort of thing.” He shrugged.

“Don't forget autistic,” Lestrade piped in from behind Sherlock, patting him on the shoulder.

Sherlock winced. “That's never been proven.”

Lestrade chuckled. “Sherlock, sometimes I think they wrote the book based on you.”

Sherlock shot Lestrade a stormy glare. “Didn't you have to go to therapy or something Gene?”

“Greg,” he replied firmly. “And yeah, I might.”

He sauntered away, winking at John before he moved out of sight.

 

“Don't listen to him,” Sherlock said, dismissing the now gone Lestrade with a wave of his hand. “He's delusional.”

“No more than you are, I suspect,” John said mildly.

Sherlock frowned at that.

“It's a joke Sherlock,” John sighed, rolling his eyes.

“I knew that,” he huffed. “Of course I knew that.”

John eyed him warily, but didn't comment.

 

“So why are you here then? I mean, yeah, you've got a list of possible issues, but you don't seem like you need to be here.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Blame my brother. He's 'concerned' about my safety.” He said this complete with air quotes, to get across just how ridiculous it was.

John laughed. “Sherlock, my sister had me sectioned. I think I understand.”

Sherlock shrugged. “Mycroft is seven years my senior, and has been an enormous pain since the day I was born. He can't stand the idea that I could be more intelligent than him, and he resents me for it.”

“Of course,” John said, entirely serious.

“And Mummy always liked me the best.”

John couldn't hold it in anymore. He burst out laughing.

“Sorry, but _mummy?_ ”

Sherlock scowled. “Yes.”

“Sorry,” John lamented, regaining control of himself. “Parents not in the picture anymore?”

“Not so much, no,” Sherlock murmured, glancing out the window.

 

“Sherlock,” someone sighed.

John looked up to see Mike.

Sherlock didn't even flinch. “I know,” he said.

“Well, come on then mate.”

He left without so much as another word to John, who realized that he had somewhere to be as well.

With Molly.

 

* * *

 

It was nearing the end of the session when she set down her notepad. (Upside down, of course, and out of his reach.)

 

“I heard that you've become close with Sherlock Holmes. Or at least as close as one can get with Sherlock.”

John laughed and shrugged. “I suppose. I think it's sort of like... is it geese that do it? Ducklings? Sort of imprint on one person, then kind of just follow them around? It's like that. For some reason Sherlock sort of... attached himself to me.” He glanced up at her. “I known I can't... technically anyway, ask you about him, but he's interesting and I was wondering...” he trailed off, leaving it open for her to speak. Or not, if she wasn't going to.

“Doctors talk,” she said slowly. “And Sherlock is certainly complicated. His IQ is on the flat part of the bell curve, but his EQ is... somewhat lower,” she admitted. “But he still has the ability to make people see what he wants them to. I don't believe that he's, as he refers to it, a sociopath, nor do I think he's schizophrenic. But Sherlock's mind is hugely different from most peoples, and it's hard to crack the mystery that he is.” She eyed him. “I told you none of this, by the way.”

“Course not,” he replied.

“But you are a doctor, and seem to be getting on well with him, so I'd like if you could let me know if there's anything significant.”

She continued on as John opened his mouth to protest.

“I'm not asking you to tell me what he does,” she said firmly. “I'm just saying... if there's anything immediately concerning. Hallucinations, delusional thoughts, self harm, _those_ sorts of things, please tell me.”

John softened. “Yeah, alright.”

She smiled warmly. “Thank you John. I'll see you in a few days then?”

He nodded, and hobbled out of the room on his most likely, but not entirely, psychosomatically injured leg.


	4. Only the Mad are Sane

**In a mad world, only the mad are sane. -Akira Kurosawa**

* * *

 

“I'm not actually crazy, you know,” Sherlock told him the next morning.

“Course not,” John replied, taking a bite out of his toast.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Don't say that like you're just trying to placate me.”

“I'm not.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

“Don't you eat?” John asked, changing the subject.

Sherlock waved a hand. “Not when I'm working. Slows me down.”

“Add eating disorder to that list,” John mumbled around crumbs. “And what could you possibly be working on? What do you even do?”

“I'm a consulting detective,” he said impatiently. “The only one in the world, do try to keep up.”

“Sort of like police?”

“Sort of. Not really. Better. Less rules, more results.”

John snorted. “I'm sure you're a big hit.”

Sherlock frowned, but nodded. “I used to work for Lestrade sometimes. Then my brother banned me from any sort of casework, private or consulting. I suspect it's part of what lead to Lestrade's breakdown, which only means my brother has more metaphorical blood on his hands.” Sherlock looked gleeful at the prospect.

“And that... pleases you?”

“John, my brother is basically the entirety of the British government. Sometimes he needs to be taken down a peg.”

“So what are you doing here then?”

Sherlock glanced around before leaning into John and whispering in his ear. “I'm undercover. Lestrade is too, more or less. I'm following the trail of a consulting criminal. He works here as an orderly. I'm pretending to be mad so I can infiltrate his web, and untangle it. No one ever suspects the crazy people.”

He waggled his eyebrows at John, clearly waiting for a response.

 

John nodded slowly, wondering how much of what Sherlock was telling him was true. If his diagnosis was any of the number of things he'd mentioned, then he could be a pathological liar, or at least have no qualms about throwing out lies at every turn.

 

But Sherlock was a genius; that much was certain.

Of course, even geniuses weren't immune to delusions. John supposed that could be what this was. Sherlock could believe he was a detective, undercover in a psych hospital, because it was easier to deal with than the truth. He adapted some of the residents into his delusion. Of course, that begged the question why he'd only chosen Greg. And why he'd chosen to befriend John.

 

Sherlock seemed to be made of questions, and no answers.

 

Still, there couldn't be much harm in going along with his delusion, if that's what it was. There was still the slightest chance that Sherlock was telling the truth, and John wasn't going to bet against it, even if it did sound impossible. And mad.

He was in a mental hospital, he couldn't get more mad than this.

 

So he bit.

“A consulting criminal? What's that?”

Sherlock's face darkened. “This man sets up crimes for people. He's the mastermind of a million different tiny schemes, none of which seem related, or perhaps even important. A death that's only slightly suspicious here, a disappearance there, occasionally something bigger, like a robbery.”

John frowned. “What, he's for hire?”

Sherlock nodded. “Exactly.”

“So, criminals go to him wanting their crimes booked up, like a holiday?”

Sherlock nodded again. “Novel, isn't it.”

John frowned. It certainly sounded ridiculous, although that meant nothing about reality, since many real things also sounded ridiculous. (Honestly, deep fried butter? Animals with florescent genes? Who was he to judge what was real or not anymore.) “Who is it?”

Sherlock averted his eyes. “I can't tell you that yet. It would compromise the investigation as well as your safety.”

“Oh, well, as long as I'm _safe,_ ” John sneered. “Since I'm sure that's what this is about.”

“You don't have to believe me,” Sherlock snapped, picking at an invisible thread on his dressing gown. “No one does. I don't need people to believe me to make it real.”

John blinked. “Did you ever think that was maybe the problem in the first place?”

Sherlock looked up from his dressing gown at him. “What's that supposed to mean.”

“Look where you are Sherlock,” John said gently. “Perhaps some beliefs are best left behind.”

Sherlock blinked. “That's just what he wants,” he whispered, looking away, almost like he was unsure.

“Of course,” John confirmed, nodding. He could tell he wasn't going to get anywhere else with Sherlock.

He heaved himself to his feet. “Shall we go see what the activity is for today?”

“Music therapy,” Sherlock said distractedly. “It's a cycle of twelve days-”

“Get up,” John ordered. Sherlock looked surprised, but obeyed. John smiled inwardly. Some of his captain side coming across perhaps. “We're going.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but followed John.

 

It turned out, he was quite good at singing. And playing the piano. And he mentioned that he trained on the violin.

The music therapist seemed delighted, and promised to bring a violin the next time.

(Which, Sherlock reminded John, was in twelve days.)


	5. Are you like, a crazy person?

**Are you like a crazy person?**

**I'm quite sure they will say so. -Alan Moore (V for Vendetta, Evey & V)**

* * *

 

It was a new nurse who came to retrieve him for therapy the next day.

 

John was a bit confused by that, since he knew he had therapy, knew how to get to Molly's office, and was good about showing up on time.

“Why do I need an escort?” he asked. “I am a grown man.”

The woman smiled. “Of course. But Doctor Hooper wants to try something different. You won't be in her office today. I'm to take you to a different room.”

John frowned.

“Alright then... Andrea,” he said, reading her name tag. “Are you new? I don't think I've seen you before.”

“I was on a different floor,” she said smoothly, leading him out of the room. She walked at a pace where he could keep up without nearly tripping over his own feet, which was considerate.

 

She scanned a key-card to call the elevator.

“It's a different floor?” John asked. Molly's office was on his floor, which was the reason he could go on his own. Key-cards were needed to call the lifts and open the stairwells, as well as switch to different wards.

Andrea hummed in agreement.

When they stepped in, she hit the B button.

“Molly wants to meet me in the basement?” John asked, incredulous.

“She's got something set up down there,” Andrea replied.

John only shrugged.

 

They arrived at the basement level, and she led him through corridors. It was a maze of locked doors and turns, and John wasn't sure how she managed to remember how to get there. He was certainly lost. Finally they stopped.

“In there,” she told him, gesturing to a door.

“Right.”

“I'll be waiting here to take you back up,” she told him.

John nodded once, and pushed the door open.

It was large, and what he expected a basement room in a hospital to look like. Concrete floors, the vague sense that something somewhere was dripping, and a lack of any natural light.

He had no clue why Molly would want to meet him down here.

 

“Have a seat John,” a voice echoed. A voice that most definitely did not belong to his therapist.

John couldn't help but wonder if Sherlock was right about there being a criminal among the staff. It would explain... whatever the hell this was.

“When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes, one learns to be discrete. Hence why I've had you come here. The leg must be hurting you. Sit down.”

John could see the man more clearly now. He was dressed impeccably, suit, tie, cuff links. He pointed to a chair placed in the middle of the darkened room with his umbrella. Honestly, who carried umbrellas indoors?

“I don't wanna sit down,” John retorted.

The man smiled. “You don't seem very afraid.”

“You don't seem very frightening.”

The man smiled more broadly. “The bravery of the soldier. Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don't you think. What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?”

“We're in the same psych hospital. Same floor even. That's about it.”

“And since the beginning of last week, you've started eating meals together and talking about... _feelings._ Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the month.”

John's jaw tightened. “Who are you?”

“An interested party,” the man replied smoothly.

“Interested in Sherlock? I'm guessing you're not friends.”

The man made an amused huffing noise. “You've met him. You'd know. I am the closest thing to a friend Sherlock is capable of having.”

John raised an eyebrow. “Which is what?”

“An enemy.”

“An enemy,” John echoed.

“In his mind anyway. If you were to ask him, he'd probably say his arch enemy.” He sighed. “He does love to be dramatic.”

“Yeah, well thank god you're above all that,” John drawled, looking pointedly at their surroundings.

The man only smiled thinly. “Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes?”

“I could be wrong, but I think that's none of your business,” John snapped.

“It could be,” the man said cryptically.

“It really couldn't,” John bit.

The man smiled again, an unsettling sort of smile that made John feel like he was about to be devoured by some large creature. “You're very loyal, very quickly.”

“No, I'm not,” John replied. He was growing tired of this man's games, and he wanted to leave.

The man pulled out a notepad. “'Trust issues' it says here,” he commented, reading off it.

“What's that?” He needn't have asked. He knew.

“Could it be that you've decided to trust Sherlock Holmes of all people?” the man asking, putting the notepad away and smirking.

“Who says I trust him,” John said quietly.

“You don't seem the kind to make friends easily,” the man noted.

_Oh yeah? I'm sure you're the life of the party._

But he didn't say that. “Are we done?”

“You tell me. I imagine people have already warned you to stay away from him, but I can see that's not going to happen.”

“How?” John asked darkly. He was sick of this man's bullshit.

The man didn't seem to reply, just continued speaking. “Most people blunder round this city, this country, the whole world, and all they see are people and streets and shops and cars.” He smiled. “When you walk with Sherlock Holmes you see the battlefield. You've seen it already, haven't you?”

“What makes you think I want to see it again?” John muttered.

The man heard him.

“You're bored in here, much like Sherlock, I suspect. No wonder you two... latched on to each other.”

He smiled again. “You're not haunted by the war Doctor Watson. You miss it. Welcome back.” With that he turned away from John and began walking to the shadowy side of the room, his umbrella twirling in his hand. “Time to choose a side Doctor Watson.”

John glared as he walked away, before turning sharply and storming out of the room.

 

The woman was waiting outside the door for him, like she said she'd be.

“Let me guess,” John snapped, limping angrily to the elevator. “You don't actually work here.”

“Oh I do,” she replied. “But not as a nurse.”

They stepped in, and she pushed the button for the floor.

He rolled his eyes. “Brilliant,” he muttered. “And I've missed therapy with Molly. She'll be thrilled.”

“What are you going to tell her?” Andrea asked.

He eyed her. “Is that a threat? That if I tell her, you'll kill me or something?”

“No Doctor Watson,” she sighed.

John snorted. “Well I can't tell her the truth, can I? That will make me look mad.”

Andrea only hummed in response as they reached the floor.

“Good day John,” she called as he limped angrily down the hall.

She remained in the elevator, and he didn't look back, simply went to his room and threw himself onto his bed.

“What the hell,” he muttered into his pillow, “Is going on around here.”

_Probably best not to know._

 

He stewed for a few more minutes before heaving himself up and heading to the day room Sherlock was nowhere to be seen, probably because he was still with Mike. The activity of the day was not music, so he likely wouldn't go. He debated going to check in Sherlock's room to see if he was there, but before he could, Molly appeared in front of him.

She was very good at sneaking up, and it probably wasn't her fault, but she startled him nonetheless.

“Jesus!” he gasped, nearly jumping out of his chair.

“Sorry,” she said quickly.

John waved her off. “It's fine.”

“Are you alright John?” Molly asked. “I missed you today.”

John looked away from her. “I'm sorry,” he said in a monotone. “It won't happen again.”

She hovered for a moment, obviously concerned, but finally she nodded and left.

John was thankful for that. How could he explain what had happened?

(If anything, he reflected, they'd put him on stronger meds.)


	6. But Not the Madness of People

**I can calculate the motion of heavenly bodies, but not the madness of people. -Isaac Newton**

* * *

 

“Met your enemy today,” he told Sherlock at dinner.

Sherlock was actually eating for once, and didn't look up from his mashed potato sculpture to speak to John. “Oh? Which one?”

“Your arch enemy.”

“Ah,” Sherlock nodded.

John rolled his eyes. Typical of Sherlock to have an _arch enemy._ How dramatic. “Who is he?”

“The most dangerous man you've ever met, but right now, not my problem,” he muttered, making a ring of corn atop his potato pile.

John wasn't so sure about that.

“What the hell are you doing?” Lestrade asked, sliding in across from Sherlock.

“Art,” Sherlock declared.

“Didn't your mother ever tell you not to play with your food?” Lestrade scoffed.

“No,” Sherlock replied, “And given that _you_ are not my mother, I don't think it's likely that she will.”

“People don't have arch enemies, in real life.”

“No?” Sherlock asked distractedly. “What do _people_ have?”

“Friends,” John offered. “People they like, people they don't like. Girlfriends, boyfriends...”

“Sounds dull,” Sherlock muttered.

“So you don't have a girlfriend?”

It took Sherlock a minute to respond, and John was starting to wonder if he's heard him, when he spoke.

“Girlfriend? No, not really my area.”

“Oh,” John nodded. “Right. Have you got a boyfriend? Which is... fine, by the way.”

“I know it's fine,” Sherlock said quickly.

“So you've got a boyfriend?”

“No.”

“Right,” John said, focusing back on his plate, and ignoring whatever Sherlock was doing with his. “So you're unattached. Like me.” _And Lestrade, and probably most of the people in this place._ “Fine. Good.” He nodded, trying very hard not to watch Sherlock spooning gravy into what appeared to be a volcano.

Sherlock stopped abruptly and turned to look at John.

“John,” he began awkwardly. “I'll have you know I consider myself married to my work, so while I'm flatter by your interest, I really must-”

 _Oh god,_ John realized, blushing. _He thinks I asked him out._ “No!” John blurted. “That's not what I was asking. I wasn't asking. At all,” he repeated firmly. “I'm just... it's all fine.”

“Right,” Sherlock muttered, returning his attention to what was definitely a mashed potato and gravy volcano. John was curious what role the corn was playing, but didn't want to ask.

He glanced at Greg, who was trying his very best not to laugh, despite looking about the colour of a tomato.

“Oh piss off,” he muttered.

Sherlock looked up and glanced between them. He looked absolutely baffled.

“I'm sure if you wanted to hear about failed romantic endeavours, Garret could provide you with a fair number of tales.”

“Greg!” he exclaimed. “And no, I couldn't.”

He stood up and stalked off.

 

“Do you really not know his name?” John asked.

“Who?”

“Greg.”

Sherlock's face showed no signs of recognition. “Who?”

“Lestrade! The man who you just spoke to. Greg Lestrade.”

Sherlock only waved a hand at John. “Must have deleted it.”

“You didn't delete my name,” John pointed out.

Sherlock had no response for that. Instead, he just shoved a spoonful of potatoes and corn into his mouth, the first thing John had seen him eat in days. And if he was eating, John wasn't going to make him talk.

The clever bastard.

 

Of course, it also meant that his volcano was destroyed, leaking lava (gravy) everywhere.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock scurried off after dinner, and John didn't see him until the next morning at breakfast, where he was building a castle out of his waffle squares. The moat was syrup.

 

John just ate his waffles, eyeing Sherlock with interest.

“So, are you ever going to let me in on your investigation,” he asked casually.

Sherlock looked up from building the drawbridge.

“Not if you're only humouring me,” he commented, raising an eyebrow.

“Only a little,” he admitted. “I do want to know. Maybe I can help.”

Sherlock grinned. “Oh, John Watson,” he drawled. “You have missed this.”

John rolled his eyes. “Just shut up and tell me. Who is this consulting criminal you're tracking down?”

Sherlock's eyes hardened. “Jim,” he spat. “The orderly. What do you think about him?”

John pictured the man Sherlock was speaking about. He was fairly ordinary, nothing special. But there was something... unsettling about the way he looked at the residents.

Like he was sizing them up.

“He's unnerving,” John told him. “But I don't see him much.”

“Consider yourself lucky then,” Sherlock replied. “I've been through some of the other floors. He's more predominant on them. I don't think he likes the amount of freedom we have up here. Makes it harder to get the patients alone. Harder to make them keep quiet. No one cares if they hear a scream from someone who never shuts up. No one's going to listen to the ramblings of a paranoid schizophrenic who hasn't been taking their meds again.”

John frowned. That was indeed true, but also terrifying to think about. This was a place where people were at their most vulnerable. They should be safe here. To think that someone was taking advantage of that fact... it made his skin crawl.

“Do you have any proof?” he asked, glancing around to see if anyone was within earshot.

Sherlock shook his head. “Nothing that's not circumstantial.”

John nodded. “Right,” he said slowly.

Sherlock grimaced and looked back to his castle, spearing one of the turrets with his spork and shoving it into his mouth. “This is why I didn't want to tell you,” he mumbled. “It would only convince you of my insanity.”

“Don't talk with your mouth full,” John said distractedly.

Sherlock swallowed before continuing. “But do you believe me?” he countered.

John considered it. The idea wasn't completely outside the realm of possibility, but the thought of it was so awful that he wanted it to be simply a delusion. “I don't want to,” he admitted. “But I'm starting to.”

Sherlock smirked. “So it's either truth that you're coming to recognize, or folie a deux.”

 

He got up from the table, taking his waffle castle with him.

John wondered why he always seemed to leave when the conversation was getting interesting.

Always wanted to have the last word, he supposed.

 

_Madness shared by two._


	7. No Such Thing as Too Insane

**There is no such thing as 'too insane' unless others turn up dead due to your actions. -Mahatma Gandhi**

* * *

 

Molly found him after he finished eating.

“Hey John. Can we talk?”

“If this is about yesterday, I am sorry,” he said. “And it really won't happen again.”

She shook her head. “It's not about that. It's something that I think you should know.”

John frowned. “Not about Sherlock, is it?”

She laughed, and shook her head again. “No matter how much he'd like to think it, not everything is about him.”

John smiled and followed Molly to her office.

 

He sat in the chair, and Molly leaned against her desk anxiously.

“A resident died last night,” she told him. “It's looking like natural causes, and there was nothing indicating suicide, especially considering who the patient was.”

It took John a moment to remember how to talk. “Who?” he managed to say.

_Not Sherlock because I saw him this morning, oh god please not Lestrade, not the piano player, what was his name, James, not the man who loved trains oh god please none of them, please god let-_

“Lillian,” Molly said quickly, perhaps noting the terror mounting on his face. “The elderly woman who was blind.”

John sagged with relief. It was awful, but he was thankful it wasn't one of his friends, wasn't one of the young people who had shown so much progress in their recovery, so much promise. Because Lillian's death was awful, yes, but she was old and there was no one left in her life.

He winced at himself for thinking it.

“Right,” he exhaled, nodding. “Thank you for telling me.”

Molly smiled a little. “You deserved to know. You were very kind to her.”

 

John attempted a smile as he remembered his first day.

* * *

 

He'd been angry, so angry at Harry for sectioning him. He was a fully grown man and a doctor, he knew better than any of them about PTSD and what he was going through.

But then the police showed up, and that decision was effectively out of his hands.

He refused that he needed hospital care, and they sectioned him.

He did get one choice though, he wanted a normal hospital.

 

Harry, Clara, and the police were sitting at the kitchen table with him.

“I don't want to go to the RCDM,” he said firmly. “I don't want to go anywhere with military ties.”

It was the only thing that they ended up agreeing upon before the paramedics showed up, which John rolled his eyes at. “I don't need that,” he pointed out. “I'm not being admitted voluntarily, but I am cooperating.”

The police shrugged. John only sighed. It was obviously much too complicated for them, and he was done with dealing with people. And machines. It was sort of why he shot one. If only the police hadn't taken his gun...

 

In the end they agreed on a non-military associated psychiatric hospital, which was how he ended up an hour and a half from Harry, in a smaller facility in Sussex.

 

He met Lillian on the second day. She was sitting in a chair by the window, basking in the sun.

John sat next to her. He didn't know what the protocol was for speaking to people. Were you supposed to ignore each other? Pretend they didn't exist? Was there some sort of signal?

In the end, she spoke to him first.

“Are you my Walter?” she asked him. Her voice was barely above a whisper.

John hesitated. “No, I'm John. Who is Walter?”

“Oh, that boy,” she whispered. “Always getting into trouble. Did he get into trouble again? Is that why I'm here?”

John's heart sank. “No,” he lied, hoping that it was at least partly true. “But he's not here. Would you like me to sit with you?”

She smiled in his direction, and that was when John noticed her eyes. Blind.

“That would be lovely dear,” she said. “I've been so lonely.”

He hesitated, but placed a hand on top of her paper thin one.

She beamed at him, and set her other hand on top.

“You always had such strong hands Walter,” she murmured.

“Yes,” John agreed.

“And so big now. I remember when your hands could only grab one of my fingers.” She smiled.

_Son then. Walter is, or maybe was, her son._

John sat with her for an hour before a nurse came to get her.

“Thank you for visiting Walter,” she told him.

“It was no problem,” John told her. And indeed, it wasn't. He hadn't had grandparents before, they'd either died before he was born (or could remember) or were so far estranged that he never met them.

It was nice though, being with her. He imagined that was how it was to have grandparents.

* * *

 

“She was a lovely woman,” he said finally.

Molly nodded. “That she was.”


	8. One Person's Craziness

**One person's craziness is another person's reality. -Tim Burton**

* * *

 

John made his way to the day room and settled in his usual chair to process what he'd just heard.

He was certainly not in the mood for dealing with a supposed consulting detective, (He still wasn't sure if he believed that or not.) so when he came flouncing in, actually wearing clothes for once (posh tailored ones of course) he told him as much.

 

“Go away Sherlock,” he told him.

Sherlock frowned. “Why?”

“Lillian is dead,” John snapped.

Sherlock frowned. “Who?”

“For- The elderly woman. She was blind. Her.”

Sherlock shrugged. “I didn't know her name was Lillian.”

“Yeah, well sometimes it's nice to learn things about other people,” John said bitterly.

Sherlock scanned him. “You're upset,” he said slowly.

“Good deduction, yeah,” he retorted.

“Why? You didn't know her outside of here. I don't even think you spoke to her, at least, not while I was watching.”

John rolled his eyes. “That's not the point Sherlock. She died last night, alone, and there's no one left to mourn her.”

“So... you're doing it?” Sherlock asked.

“Yes. No. I don't know,” he snapped, throwing his hands up in the air. “It doesn't matter if you aren't upset, or even understand why I'm upset. But I'm not going to sit here and let you berate me over feeling emotions.”

There was a beat.

“It's not my fault. I'm a sociopath,” Sherlock declared.

“No, you're not,” John sighed. “Stop it.”

“How would you know?” he pouted, throwing himself into a chair.

“Doctor, remember. Besides, I speak to Molly.”

Sherlock frowned. “She's not allowed to do that.”

“Do what?” John replied innocently. “Besides, if you want to know what a sociopath looks like, go check out the room at the end of the hall.”

“The licking guy?” Sherlock asked, dismayed. “No, he's just gross.”

John hummed in response.

 

Sherlock sat back. “How did she die?”

“Does it matter?” John hissed.

Sherlock only blinked at him. “Of course it does. She wouldn't have been here if she was unwell. They would have transferred her to hospital. So it must have been something unexpected.”

“For Christs sake Sherlock, she was old! Sometimes people just die!”

Sherlock looked thoughtful. “Or perhaps that's what he wanted them to think...” he murmured.

“ _What_?!” John pointed at him. “Don't you dare.”

Sherlock gaped. “What?”

“That,” John said firmly. “Don't turn this into something it's not.”

“I didn't say anything of the sort!” Sherlock protested.

“You were going to. And I don't want to hear any of your conspiracy theories.”

“They're not theories,” Sherlock muttered. “They're true.”

John only stared at him. “Yeah, I've no clue why you're in here.”

With that he got up, heaving himself to his feet with a heavy grip on his cane. He left Sherlock sitting there as he limped off to his room.

Thankfully, he knew better than to follow.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock wasn't at breakfast the next morning. He was probably still stewing. He was a bit like a child that way. He'd have a temper tantrum, hide away in a corner, stay mad for a while, then turn up like nothing happened, possibly with a drawing.

 

But when Sherlock didn't show up by lunch, and a quick look in his room showed it to be empty, John asked Mrs Hudson if she knew where he'd gone.

“Oh Sherlock? He's gone a floor up.”

John blinked at her. The floor above was higher security, less freedom, and was for patients who were more likely to be violent. “Why?”

She smiled sympathetically at him. “There was a bit of an incident last night. It must have been after you left the day room. Sherlock attacked one of the orderlies. He had to be sedated, and Doctor Stamford moved him to the more secure floor.”

_God, Sherlock. I leave you alone for a minute and look what you do._

John closed his eyes briefly. “Who was it? The orderly that Sherlock attacked.”

“Jim. You know him?”

John sighed. “Yes, I do. Thank you. Do you know when he'll be back?”

Mrs Hudson shrugged. “Shouldn't be too long, if he behaves himself. Mike will probably adjust his meds, make him go to more therapy, and in a few days Sherlock will be back down here annoying us.” She smiled. “Don't you worry about him, John.”

“I won't,” he assured her. “Thank you.”


	9. Fine Line Between Genius and Insanity

**There's a fine line between genius and insanity. I have erased this line. -Oscar Levant**

* * *

 

Like Mrs Hudson suspected, Sherlock was back within two days, looking rather pleased with himself.

John grilled him about it over lunch.

 

“What the _hell_ was that for?” he hissed over his sandwich. Sherlock didn't look up at him, too busy pulling the layers apart.

Perhaps John wasn't so far off with his eating disorder diagnosis.

“What?” he asked, scraping the sauce off of the lettuce.

“Punching Jim? What did you think that would accomplish?”

Sherlock shrugged. “I confess I may not have thought that one through entirely. I was angry at how our conversation had ended, and upset about the woman's death, and knowing that it was most like _Jim_ who had done it...” He hissed the man's name out with venom.

Sherlock calmed himself before continuing. “Well, I took my anger out in what seemed like a logical way at the time.”

“By attacking Jim,” John concluded.

“Yup,” Sherlock said, enunciating the 'p' loudly. He'd finished with the sauce removal, and replaced the lettuce on the bread, moving on to examining the onions with great care.

John put his head in his hands. “You're an idiot,” he told him, his voice muffled a bit through his fingers.

Sherlock only shrugged. “There were drugs involved. Not what I'd usually go for, but...” he shrugged again. “You take what you can get.”

John groaned. “Of course. That's just fantastic. Drug seeking now?”

Sherlock looked up. “I told you about that. In the list of possible diagnoses. Multiple drug addictions?” he reminded.

John sighed.

 

Sherlock finally took a bite of his sandwich and made a face.

“The food was better up there too,” he muttered, more to himself than John.

“Well, perhaps you should have just stayed up there,” John told him.

Sherlock shook his head. “No, it was too boring.”

John raised an eyebrow. “And this floor is more exciting?” He was skeptical about that.

“Course it is,” Sherlock replied, wiping his hands off with a napkin and hiding the remains of the sandwich beneath it. “You're here.”

“Lovely,” John sighed. “I was spot on with what I told Molly about the ducks.”

Sherlock frowned. “What's the supposed to mean?”

John only shook his head.

Sherlock pushed his sandwich away, having taken only one bite, and hidden it underneath a napkin.

 

John pushed himself to his feet, grabbing his cane to stalk off to his room.

Sherlock followed him. _Duck indeed._

 

John sat on his bed, facing Sherlock as he closed the door behind him. He sighed at the man. “If you ever want to leave, you can't keep doing things like-”

“Hush,” Sherlock interrupted, holding a hand up to John's face. “Besides,” he added, glancing up at John's annoyed expression and smirking. “Who says I want to leave?”

“Gee, cause maybe any sane person would?”

“Perhaps not your best choice of words,” Sherlock muttered, and John winced.

“Sorry-” he began, but Sherlock held his hand up again.

“Could be dangerous,” he said.

John blinked. “What?”

“It could be dangerous,” Sherlock repeated.

“ _What_ could be dangerous?” John sighed.

“Oh. Did I not mention it?”

John shook his head. “Nope.”

Sherlock tilted his head. “Right. Well John Watson. Would you like to go on an adventure?”

“No,” John replied firmly. Whatever Sherlock was on about, he was fairly certain he wanted no part in it.

“Come on,” Sherlock whined. “We've got things to do.” He held up his prize and dangled it in front of his face.

“Where the hell did you get that?” John gaped at the keycard that Sherlock was twirling between his fingers.

Sherlock smirked. “Nicked it from Anderson. He's not very clever.”

“Oh god, you're going to get us in so much trouble,” John exhaled.

Sherlock shrugged. “That's what's so fun about it. And,” he added, “It's why you're going to come.”

He smirked at John.

“Oh shut up,” he muttered. “Come on. Where are we going?”

“Basement,” Sherlock replied, striding out of his room.

John had to scrambled to keep up.

“Of course,” he mumbled. “The basement. Where all the fun stuff is.”

 

Sherlock led him to the back stairwell. “No one ever uses it,” he told John.

John sighed, but followed him, gripping the railing. Sherlock waited impatiently for him at the bottom.

“Do try to keep up,” he huffed.

“Sorry for being shot,” John muttered.

“In the shoulder,” Sherlock reminded him.

John glared at him. “How did you even know that?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Consulting detective, remember?”

John sighed at him.

 

“People don't usually come down here,” Sherlock told him, leading him through corridors and past rooms. John pointed out the room where Sherlock's arch enemy had him brought for a visit slash interrogation.

Sherlock looked slightly amused, but continued on.

 

John swore they were going in circles, but eventually Sherlock put a hand out to stop him.

“What is it?” John asked, irked.

Sherlock held a finger to his lips. “Shh,” he urged.

John shut his mouth and listened. He wasn't sure what Sherlock was going on about until he heard the faint whispers of voices echoing through the halls.

 

Before John could even gape, Sherlock yanked him by his sleeve into an adjoining room. It must have been used for storage, because it contained wooden desks, bed frames, and old uncomfortable chairs.

 

“Sherlock!” John hissed, crouching where Sherlock had shoved him behind a desk. “What are we doing? We're going to get caught.”

Sherlock glared at him, holding a finger to his lips again.

John strained to hear, but couldn't make out anything from beyond the walls of the room.

He glanced at Sherlock, who appeared to be listening intently.

 

They crouched there in the dark for some indeterminate amount of time.

Finally, Sherlock tugged at John's sleeve. “Let's go,” he whispered. “We're going to have to make a break for it. If they're down here, there's no telling if they'll circle round back, but so far the pattern indicates they won't.”

“What about what you're looking-”

Sherlock cut him off with a shake of his head. “It can wait. You're going to have to follow me closely though John. Very closely. I can't risk you getting lost, or getting left behind down here. It would leave too many questions.”

He stood up from behind the desk and went to the door. John followed.

“When I say run, _run,”_ Sherlock whispered in a low voice.

John's spine prickled. It was so clandestine, like they were spies or something.

God, he hated himself for loving it.

“ _Run!_ ”

 

They ran like giddy schoolboys through the hallways nearly slipping as they spun around corners, and leaped up the stairs, using the pilfered keycard, before tearing into Sherlock's room, skidding around the corner, and closing the door.

They leaned against the wall with the lights off, breathing heavily.

“Oh god,” John breathed. “That was the most ridiculous thing I've ever done.”

“You invaded Afghanistan,” Sherlock reminded him.

John for some reason thought that was hilarious. “Yeah, but I wasn't alone.”

They both broke out into giggles again before catching their breath.

“We didn't find anything,” John pointed out. “What was that good for anyway?”

“Oh, just proving a point,” Sherlock smirked.

John frowned. “What?”

“You,” Sherlock pointed out smugly. “Forget something?”

John glanced around. He didn't think so- _oh!_

He'd left his cane behind. Running when Sherlock told him to, _running,_ made him forget all about it.

“Told you it was psychosomatic.”

John rolled his eyes. “I knew that too.”

“Sure.”

John huffed at him. “What that what this whole thing was about? Just proving a point?”

Sherlock shrugged. “No. It was a long shot though, so I simply multitasked.” He grinned. “It worked though, didn't it?”

“Twat,” John muttered.

Sherlock beamed like it was a compliment.


	10. Madness Put to Good Uses

**Sanity is a madness put to good uses. -George Santayana**

* * *

 

Molly gaped at him the next day, then grinned widely.

“What changed?” she asked, leaning forward, her notepad quite close to John. He didn't read it though.

John sighed. He knew what it was going to sound like. “Sherlock,” he muttered.

Molly sat back. “It seems he's been a good influence on you,” she noted, not entirely pleased. Or unsure. She sounded unsure.

“He's been... something,” he said finally. “I'm not sure what.”

Molly looked thoughtful. “How many friends have you had since you came back?”

John looked away. “None,” he admitted.

“And how many friends have you had since you were here?”

“Two,” he sighed.

Molly smiled. “Quite right. What was the difference?”

_Forced social interaction? Confined quarters?_

“I'm not sure,” he said finally.

Molly considered that. “I think you're adjusting,” she told him. “Recovering. Adapting. Civilian life is hard to readjust to. Have you thought about writing like I asked?”

John shrugged. “I'm not very good with words. And my handwriting's rubbish.”

“Are you better at typing?”

He laughed. “Ah, no. Computers and I never really got along. Technology and I seem to be at odds.”

Molly blushed. “Right...” she whispered, making another note, out of John's line of sight.

 

* * *

 

“Have you met Carl before?” Sherlock asked John over another meal he wasn't eating.

“I don't think so. Is he on this ward?”

Sherlock shook his head. “Floor above. I met him on my little trip there.”

“It was not a little trip, Sherlock,” John interrupted.

Sherlock waved him off. “Whatever. He's quite fascinating though, he thinks-”

“Hang on,” Lestrade said, cutting him off. “How come you can't remember my name, but you meet this guy once, and you know his?”

“We don't know that it actually is his name,” John pointed out, gesturing with his spork.

Lestrade chucked. “True.” He motioned for Sherlock to go on.

“Carl thinks he's dead,” Sherlock finished, looking more than a little annoying at Lestrade.

“I've heard of that,” John commented, around a mouthful of food. “Cotard delusion. Why is he upstairs then?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. He obviously wanted to impress them with his knowledge, and was irked that John spoke first. “Because he also believes that in addition to being dead, he is immortal. He keeps trying to kill himself to prove it.”

“Nice,” Lestrade quipped. “Sounds like a lovely guy.”

“How does he think he died?” John asked, swallowing.

Sherlock grinned. “He thinks he was murdered,” he said smugly. “By one of the nurses.”

John's stomach dropped. He didn't like where this was going. “Yes, but he's obviously not dead, is he, so he must be wrong,” he stammered, shoving his plate away. “I'm done,” he declared, and stood up. “I'll see you later,” he muttered, leaving before Lestrade could ask.

 

He avoided Sherlock for most of the rest of the day, not wanting to feed his delusions. Not sure what to think about his delusions. If they were even delusions.

He mostly didn't know what to think.

(So he didn't.)

 

* * *

 

John accepted his nighttime meds, frowning.

“Changed them again?” he asked Mrs Hudson.

“I just give them out dear,” she told him. “Other people are the ones responsible for prescribing and distributing them. That one has the name John H Watson on it, so I give it to you.”

John shrugged, and swallowed.

He showed his empty mouth to Mrs Hudson, and handed her the cup back.

“Don't you be sticking your tongue out at me, young man,” she teased.

John smiled. “I'm off to read. Night!”

She waved to him, and moved onto James, who was next in line.

“I heard you playing today!” she exclaimed. “It was lovely!”

John smiled at the traces of conversation he could hear as he headed off to his room.

James was excellent at playing the piano, he reflected, crawling into bed with his book. Absolutely brilliant.

 

John hadn't read this much for... he couldn't remember the last time he'd read so much.

He finished the book he was reading, a young adult novel by an American author. The ending was terribly sad, and he couldn't help but dwell on it as he fell into an uneasy sleep.


	11. Jump Over and Have Done With It

**Zaphod felt he was teetering on the edge of madness and wondered if he shouldn't just jump over and have done with it. -Douglas Adams**

* * *

 

 

John wasn't having a good day.

He hadn't slept well, waking up from a nightmare more than once, having nothing to do with the book he'd finished before bed, just the usual. His shoulder was aching, and his leg was thinking about it. He was shaky and on edge and not in the mood for much of anything.

At least the weather agreed with him. The sky was dark, even though it was mid-morning, and thunder occasionally rolled across the sky, preceded by flashes of lightning. Thick droplets of rain landed on the windows.

 

He made it clear that he wasn't interested in social interaction, skipping breakfast, not sure he could keep anything down. His usual chair was angled away from the room, a measure of the trust he had, and was looking out the window. Watching the weather that was as miserable as he felt was reassuring. Lestrade walked by, hesitated for a moment, but kept on going.

 _Good plan,_ John thought.

 

His eyes were drooping, and he was contemplating going to ask Molly for something to help him sleep, when Sherlock snuck up on him, and all hell broke loose.

 

It was only a light touch on his shoulder, but it was his bad shoulder, and on top of it already hurting, Sherlock's touch was like being shot again.

 

So that was where he went, back to the day he was shot.

 

 _Pain, shock, what the- ... oh, he'd been shot. Well that's interesting. Fuck, he's been shot, stupid, stupid, who's going to take care of everyone else now. Higgins, where was he, hadn't he been taking care of his gut wound? The boy, oh he was just a boy really, was in front of him, get down you idiot, he tackled him, down to the floor. “John!” Was Murray calling him? Was someone else wounded? Oh god_ he _was wounded how was he going to help anyone else, idiot, such an idiot-_

 

“John, it's Sherlock.”

John blinked, and he was no longer in Afghanistan. Instead he was crouched below the window in a mental hospital, with the man he'd come to call his friend sprawled on the floor in front of him. _Put there by him. Oh god what did he do to him, hurt him, hurt Sherlock, no, this was never-_

 

He crawled to his feet, limped as fast as his aching leg would allow, out of the day room _thankfully not full, must be a meal or something, something_ down the hall, into his room, bathroom, door closed.

 

He knelt over the toilet bowl and vomited, again and again. His stomach and back muscles heaved and cramped and begged for it to stop, and finally, _finally,_ it did. He slouched in the corner, breathing heavily, his eyes closed tightly in an effort to block out the images.

But his mind was having none of that, and movies played on the backs of his eyelids, the opposite of his greatest hits.

_He'd just attacked Sherlock. Sherlock. A friend. He attacked him, for no reason at all. Well of course there was a reason, but there wasn't at the same time, and Sherlock was going to hate him, and tell Molly, and there would be more therapy and more meds and more time spent here. He'd been doing so much better not going to get to go home now failure dead you couldn't save them-_

John gagged, but there was nothing left in his stomach to come back up.

 

He hadn't had a panic attack like this since... well he wasn't sure. Maybe the first week when he arrived home, and Clara had been watching a movie, and he heard the _gun..._

Or maybe when he was still in the hospital, and the painkillers somehow went wrong, and he ended up in the corner, defending himself with his IV pole, not even realizing that his shoulder was bleeding through the bandages.

Yes, that one was probably the worst, since he'd completely dissociated, and could barely remember what had happened.

But this was close.

 

Another wave of nausea rolled over him as he thought of the hospital.

He pushed the thought out of his head, trying to think of something, _anything,_ that would make him feel better.

He was at a bit of a loss. What good things were there in his life? He was in a mental hospital, he'd been shot, his sister ditched him the first chance she got...

But there was Sherlock.

The mad man that was Sherlock. (John still wasn't sure if he was mad or not, but he was _mad,_ perhaps just not in the way everyone else thought.)

Sherlock who had dragged him through the hallways and stairwells of the building, telling him to _run,_ and his leg listened. Sherlock who eliminated the need for a cane. Sherlock who curled like a cat on the couch, and who would watch Doctor Who with John, and complain far less than he complained about the other shows. Sherlock who rarely ate, and when he did, it was after carefully constructing his food into some sort of modern art sculpture.

Sherlock who would understand a panic attack, who would understand a flashback, who would understand that John wasn't attacking him, but something else, someone else. Who would understand that John wasn't even there, not really, maybe his body was, but not his mind, not at that moment.

_Sherlock._

John focused on breathing, in and out, which should have been easy, but had become _so damn hard._

He breathed in, and thought of when he met Sherlock. He breathed out, and thought of the first thing Sherlock had said to him.

_And repeat._

 

He was good at that part.

 

It took ages, or maybe minutes, for him to come out of it.

 

He uncurled himself from the bathroom floor and stretched his shaking muscles out. He hadn't realized how tight they were. Coiled, ready to spring into action at any threat. It was probably best that no one had tried to help him. He wasn't sure what he'd have done.

He tried not to look at himself in the shatter proof mirror. He already knew how bad it was.

Instead he splashed cold water on his face, hoping it would take away some of the redness of his eyes and cheeks.

He took a few more minutes to breathe, in and out, which was becoming easier to remember how to do.

 

Sherlock was sitting on the floor next to the bathroom.

He looked up at John before pouncing to his feet.

“Are you alright?” Sherlock asked, not making eye contact.

John thought for a moment. “No, not really,” he replied hoarsely.

Sherlock nodded. “But it's alright now. It's okay.”

“No, it's not! It's not okay!” John bellowed. “How can this possibly be _okay,_ Sherlock? I _hurt_ you! I was so close-”

“You've been drugged,” Sherlock said firmly, clasping John by his upper arms, and effectively shutting him up. “We've all been drugged.”

John frowned. “How?”

Sherlock waved a hand. “Not entirely certain yet, but Moriarty is behind this, I'm sure of it.”

 

_Oh dammit. I'm taking the word of a delusional madman?_

_Well, may as go all the way down the path to crazy._

_Let it be known that John Watson never did things by halves._

 

John attempted a smile, and nodded. “What do you need?”

Sherlock beamed.

 


	12. Mad In Some Way or Another

**Anybody remotely interesting is mad in some way or another. -Doctor Who**

* * *

 

 

They both sat on John's bed, going over the plan.

 

“You're going to have to punch me,” John sighed.

Sherlock looked up at him. “What?”

“Punch me,” John repeated. “To make it realistic. You have to be delusional and dangerous. That's the only way they'll sedate you and move you to the other floor.”

Sherlock nodded. “Quite right.”

“I've mentioned that this plan is stupid and dangerous, right?”

“Only about five times,” Sherlock commented wryly.

“Well, once more won't hurt.”

Sherlock sighed.

 

It was exciting. And John hated it, but Sherlock was right. He did like it.

 

The setup was simple. John would be in the day room, sitting. Sherlock would come in, start speaking to him. His words would become louder and more angry. His arms would wave wildly about, articulating his points. John would look perplexed, and perhaps slightly frightened.

When John stood up, Sherlock would become physical, grabbing his arms, pulling him, and then punching him in the jaw.

 

And that was exactly what happened, a perfectly choreographed descent into madness.

 

After John was decked, which was more disorientating than he expected, especially from Sherlock, he watched, dazed from his spot on the floor half a dozen feet away.

Hands pulling trousers down. Hands holding flailing limbs. It would be a sharp sting in the buttocks. Needle removed. Clothes replaced. Waiting.

For a moment, John wondered if it worked, but then Sherlock's eyes drifted shut, his fighting limbs went lax, and he was down.

A stretcher appeared, and Sherlock was lifted up and away. Off to the floor above. Again.

Just like he wanted.

 

“I don't know,” John said to whoever was asking him what happened. “I don't know,” he repeated.

He found himself in his room with an icepack for his jaw, Molly in a chair pulled up to his bedside, Mike standing behind her.

“John,” Molly said hesitantly, “What happened?”

John shook his head. “I'm... not entirely sure,” he admitted. _And wasn't that the truth._ “We were talking, sort of, he wasn't making a whole lot of sense, then he suddenly turned towards me and just... hit me,” he finished lamely.

Mike and Molly exchanged a glance.

“You just get some rest and recover, alright John?” Mike said, carefully patting his uninjured shoulder.

John nodded. “I'm fine, really. I've seen worse,” he added, with an attempt at a smile.

Mike smiled back. “Of course. But still, take it easy for the rest of the day.”

“I think I'll stay in my room. Would you mind closing the door on the way out?”

Molly smiled again. “Of course,” she said. Mike left, but Molly hung back for a moment.

“John, we're thinking of letting you go soon. You've been doing really well, and this incident with Sherlock only shows how much you've improved, not reacting to him, not getting angry...” she trailed off. “We were going to wait until the end of the week, but now I think it can be moved up to tomorrow. Would you like that?”

John sat mutely. Tomorrow. They were going to let him go home. _Tomorrow._

Although, if he got caught doing what he was about to, he might be stuck for at least another week yet.

Best to not get caught then.

He smiled, and nodded at Molly. “I'd like that. Very much.”

Molly beamed back. “Great. I've been in contact with your sister, and she should be able to come pick you up tomorrow. I'll have a nurse give her a call and check. For now, why don't you just rest.”

John nodded. “Thank you.”

Molly smiled at him again, and left, closing the door behind her like John had asked.

 

Pushing that thought aside, because none of it would matter if what he was about to do went wrong, John glanced at his watch. Twelve minutes. Sherlock told him that the drugs were supposed to last for an hour. He claimed they would wear off in 45 minutes with him.

Sherlock also claimed that Moriarty would know about his high drug tolerance, and recognize the crucial window, which he would certainly take advantage of.

Before the half hour mark, Moriarty would have removed Sherlock to the basement, or so Sherlock claimed.

 

“How do you know that? That he takes them to the basement?” John asked, looking up from his notes.

Sherlock grinned. “I've followed him before. Do you honestly think I just hide out in my room when you don't see me?”

“I really don't know,” John admitted.

“It's why I took you down there that day,” he added. “So in case it came to this, you'd know where to go.”

“Ulterior motives...” John muttered, scribbling something else down.

“The keycard for the elevator is underneath my mattress.”

“Really?”

Sherlock blinked. “What?”

John rolled his eyes. “That's the first place they look. Are you sure it's still there?”

Sherlock looked disgusted. “John, you think that I would simply keep it _under my mattress?_ No, no, it's underneath it, yes, but also inside it.” It was his turn to roll his eyes. “It's offensive that you think so little of me.”

John held his hands up in defense. “Well sorry,” he muttered.

 

He checked his pocket for the keycard that had indeed been tucked inside Sherlock's mattress, through a slit barely big enough for it to fit.

This was the part he was most nervous about. Simply waltzing up to the elevator, waiting for it, and getting in.

Or he could take the stairs. That would probably work just as well.

 _Idiot,_ he told himself, sounding an awful lot like Sherlock.

 

He was pacing the hallway, waiting for the right opportunity. He wasn't sure what it was, but he felt like he'd know it when he saw it. He would _feel_ it.

 

John was about to give up on that school of thought, and just make a break for it when Greg showed up.

“John,” he greeted.

John's heart nearly stopped for a moment. “Greg,” he said weakly.

“How are you doing? I heard Sherlock sort of attacked you.”

“Fine, fine,” he replied distractedly.

“Do you know why he did it?”

John laughed. “Does anyone know why Sherlock does anything?”

Lestrade grinned. “You tell me.”

“You've known Sherlock longer than I have. You know him better,” John pointed out, feeling the smooth plastic of the keycard in his pocket.

“I've known him for five years, but no I don't,” Lestrade replied.

John frowned. “Then why do you put up with him? Did you,” he corrected.

Lestrade smiled halfway, a sort of tired smile that his face was used to giving. “Because Sherlock Holmes is a great man. And I think one day, if we're very very lucky, he just might be a good one.”

John returned Lestrade's sad smile. “Perhaps,” he agreed.

“I suspect he's waiting for you,” Lestrade noted.

John frowned. “I don't know what you're-”

“Go on,” he motioned. “I've got you covered on this end.”

John smiled. “Thanks Greg.”

Lestrade smiled. “Of course.”

 

With Lestrade keeping watch on the upper end, John scanned the keycard and slipped into the back stairwell, the one that was least likely to be used. He made his way down the flights of stairs, all the way down to the basement level, where he scanned his keycard again and emerged into the hallway that he'd been in only twice before.

God help him if he got lost.


	13. All Mentally Ill

**I think that we're all mentally ill. Those of us outside the asylums only hide it a little better- and maybe not all that much better after all. -Stephen King**

* * *

 

 

When Sherlock awoke, he was restrained at the wrists and ankles.

He tested them slightly, feeling how much give there was.

None.

He could probably get out of them if he really wanted to, but it would require breaking several bones, and far more time than he had.

 

“Sherlock,” a voice sang. “I know you're awake.”

Sherlock opened one eye at Moriarty's melodic teasing.

“Course,” he replied. “I'd expect as much of you.” A quick check of his surroundings confirmed that he was in the basement room, just like he'd expected, and had told John.

Right. John. John would be coming.

He just had to make it until then, which was easier in theory than in practice, once Sherlock saw the considerable collection of knives the man had displayed against the wall.

 

It would be alright. Pain was okay. Sherlock had a high tolerance, and Moriarty wouldn't do anything immediately life threatening. He'd want to prolong his suffering, perhaps not even kill him this time, but take him back to the floor, claim he found him somewhere, self harming and suicidal. That would ensure he stayed on the locked ward, easy picking if the man wanted to have another go.

 

He just had to settle in for the wait.

 

“Oh Sherlock,” Moriarty murmured, trailing his fingers along his collection of knives. Caressing them. “I've waited so long for you. I've been watching you for a very long time.”

Sherlock grimaced. “And they said I was paranoid,” he muttered.

Moriarty turned back at him and beamed. “Nope. It was me.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. This was getting dull already. There wasn't even enough of the drug left in his system to give him any sort of desirable effects.

He hoped John would hurry.

 

“So when I heard that you'd gone off the deep end, and gotten yourself sectioned...” He drew the word out, distorting it with a mocking tone and a stupid look on his face. “I thought to myself, 'Oh, that Sherlock...'” He tutted to himself. “'He'll just be in there, waiting for someone to come and play with him.' So here I am!” he beamed, having finally selected a knife.

It was a small one, but pointed, and no doubt sharp.

Moriarty must have noticed him eyeing it, because he held it directly in Sherlock's line of vision.

“Do you like it?” he asked. “Not that it matters, but you may as well have your say.”

Sherlock sighed. “It's not very... original, Jim.”

The man frowned. Sherlock knew that hit a nerve. Both the name, and the remark on his originality. Like Sherlock, he was the only one of his type in the world. One consulting detective and one consulting criminal.

“I mean, you could have come up with something more... interesting. Bombs... poison... games... pawns,” he added, staring into his eyes. “I know how much you like to play games with human pieces.”

Moriarty only hummed happily. “Yeah, a little bit. Still, I thought the drugs were a nice touch. For both you and your little friend.”

Sherlock winced, but tried to hide it.

“Oh,” Moriarty teased. “There's a nerve.”

He punctuated his statement with a trace of the knife down Sherlock's cheek, not deep enough to cut, just to scratch.

“Your little pet, isn't he?”

“Hardly,” Sherlock replied coolly. “A means to an end.”

“Oh?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. “What end would that be?”

He leaned in closer to Sherlock's face, drawing the knife across his other cheek, less of a trace, more of a declaration. That one was deep enough to draw blood, and Sherlock could feel the warmth oozing down his face.

“You,” he whispered.

 

Moriarty stepped back, obviously annoyed, and perhaps a bit confused. “Oh, Sherlock,” he began, before stopping abruptly as John placed his weapon firmly against the base of his head.

“Don't move,” he ordered. “Drop the knife now.”

Moriarty grinned, and the clatter rang out in the small room as the metal hit the ground and bounced.

“John?” Sherlock gasped, straining to sit up and see better. “How on earth did you get your gun in here?”

John shrugged modestly. “Some things are best kept secret,” he replied. “Down,” he demanded to Moriarty. “On the ground. Hands behind your head. Slowly,” he ordered.

Moriarty grinned at Sherlock, but obeyed John, moving slowly and deliberately down to the ground.

 

When he was laying flat, hands on his head, John pressed a knee into his back, and tucked his weapon into his waistband.

Two expertly placed fingers on each side of his neck ensured that the man passed out within seconds.

John grinned at Sherlock, and kept them there a bit longer for good measure. He then pulled out the syringe, god only knows how he got that, probably sweet talked the nurse or something, flirted with someone while sneaking out drugs when she wasn't looking.

Sherlock did admire that, even while straining to sit up and see.

John injected the syringe into the man's leg and pushed the safety mechanism over the needle. He checked the man for weapons, and finding none, moved to help Sherlock undo the restraints.

“Much better,” Sherlock declared, rubbing his wrists, able to sit up without muscles shaking and straining.

“Are you alright?” John asked, cupping his hand around the cuts on Sherlock's cheek.

“I'm fine,” he insisted, pulling away from the touch.

It was mostly true. He would be fine. There was no major damage and there were more important things to worry about.

“Can we do something with him before he wakes up?” Sherlock asked, nodding at Moriarty.

John grinned. “He won't be waking up for a while. But sure.”

 

With minimal help from Sherlock, John heaved the man up onto the stretcher. Sherlock had to admit it was without grace, but the man deserved any bruises he got and more. And John was strong. Must have been the army training. If it hurt his shoulder, he didn't let it show, which Sherlock found admirable.

 

Sherlock did help with tightening the restraints around the man's wrists and ankles, perhaps a little too tightly, but John ensured he still had circulation. They probably weren't necessary, but Sherlock had no knowledge of the man's drug history, and John had likely erred on the side of caution, rather than overdose the man, despite all that he'd done.

_Because John was a good man._

 

“What do we do with him now?” John asked, stepping back. “If we just take him up like this, they'll think we've lost it entirely, especially considering the events of the day so far.”

Sherlock wanted to protest, but there was no point. He'd supposedly attacked John and been sedated, and John had experienced a severe panic attack. But that was due to the drugs.

“Oh!” Sherlock exhaled.

“What?”

“The drugs. They should still be in your system. John, you're going to need to pee in a cup.”

John blinked at him. “Only you could sound so pleased about saying that,” he muttered.

Sherlock attempted to smile endearingly at him, but John only looked horrified.

_Not doing that again then._

“Oh, and I may have installed a tiny camera in the ceiling,” he added.

 

He was shocked to hear John fall to the ground in lieu of a response.

He frowned at the man, slouched against the wall. “John, are you okay?”

“A camera,” he whispered. “You installed a bloody camera.”

Sherlock frowned. “Yeah, of course.”

John laughed, perhaps a bit hysterically. “'Of course' he says,” John muttered, talking to himself. “The man is bloody sectioned and he still managed to install a camera.”

Sherlock sighed. “John, we've been over this. I wasn't sectioned, I'm undercover.”

John only laughed again, high pitched and wheezy. Sherlock was starting to get seriously concerned about his health.

“Yeah, well, I'm still not entirely sure about that,” John gasped.

“Glad you're so amused, but there really are things we should be getting on with,” Sherlock huffed. “How long has it been?”

John managed to stop giggling long enough to glance at his watch. “Seventy minutes.”

_Seventy minutes. Right. Hour and a half drive, as long as he didn't have to stop for anything like food, so... about a half hour before he gets here? Give or take, depends on what sort of driver he had._

“So, twenty minutes, give or take a bit before my brother gets here.” He exhaled loudly. “That will be tedious.” He frowned. “I wonder if they've even noticed I'm missing.” He shrugged.

John raised an eyebrow, mostly recovered from his giggling spree, but still in his place on the ground. “This would be the brother who runs the world?”

“Mostly just Britain,” Sherlock corrected. “But yes. Thankfully, I only have one brother.”

 

John pulled his weapon out of his waistband and tossed it on the ground.

“Quite ingenious,” Sherlock commented, picking up the highlighter and examining it.

John laughed. “Well, you make do with what you have,” he said modestly. “Nice of you to throw in the touch about where I got my gun though.”

Sherlock shrugged. “No problem. The neck trick was interesting. You'll have to teach me that.”

John only laughed again. “Not a chance. Now, let me look at those cuts while we're waiting.”

Sherlock huffed, but he allowed John to examine his cheeks. Well, only the one really. The other one barely had a scratch, just a bit of a red mark because his skin was so pale, which John was quick to point out.

 

When John determined he wasn't bleeding out (obviously), he was content to sit back and berate Sherlock about his stupidity, keeping secrets, and anything else that came to mind.

 

Sherlock huffed and rolled his eyes, but it was alright. They'd caught Moriarty, and John laughed at his jokes.

A pretty good day, considering.


	14. Was I Ever Crazy?

**Was I ever crazy? Maybe. Or maybe life is... -Susanna Kaysen**

* * *

 

 

Sherlock's estimate was right on track. Men in suits came in twenty minutes after he make his prediction. Moriarty was still unconscious then, thank god, at least he didn't have a stupidly high tolerance to drugs like Sherlock did.

 

Following on the heels of the men in suits was the woman John recognized as the fake nurse Andrea. She was obviously playing a different role today.

“Who are you today then?” he asked her, looking quite different in a dress and heels, practically glued to her phone.

She looked up at John and smiled. “Whoever I need to be.”

John nodded. “Right. That's as far as I'm going to get, isn't it?”

She only smirked at him.

_That's a yes then._

 

She directed the men in suits towards the man lying on the stretcher, and they wheeled him out.

 

“He's waiting for you upstairs,” she told Sherlock without looking at him.

“Of course he is,” Sherlock muttered.

 

Sherlock took the stairs two at a time, and John had to struggle to keep up. The door to the lobby opened without a keycard, which was nice, because John was the one holding it, and Sherlock seemed quite determined. John wouldn't have been surprised if he forwent the opening bit altogether and just smashed through it.

But then, his cheeks were already bleeding, so he didn't need any more cuts today.

 

Sherlock skidded to a stop in the foyer, the stretcher bearing the master criminal already on its way out the door. John halted behind him, watching the proceedings with interest.

 

“Late, as ever,” Sherlock announced loudly. “I finally got the proof you wanted that he's been torturing and killing patients. I'm sure you can find the hidden camera all on your own.”

The man in the suit turned and frowned at him.

It was the same man who'd had John taken to the basement before. It made sense, considering the woman who came with him. But what the hell was his connection to Sherlock?

 

“Well done then Sherlock. Another case... cracked, as it were.” The man smiled thinly.

“Yes Mycroft, you can quit with your thinly veiled remarks about my sanity,” Sherlock snapped.

John's eyes widened. “ _Mycroft_? As in your brother Mycroft?”

“The one and only,” Sherlock said flatly, still staring at the man. “Thank god.”

 

“Sherlock,” John hissed, pulling him aside. “That's the man who threatened me. _He's_ your arch enemy?”

“Yeah, of course,” Sherlock said, not a hint of a lie in his face.

“Really. So, instead of, you know, the consulting criminal who's trying to kill us, you choose your brother as your arch enemy?”

Sherlock scoffed. “You don't choose your arch enemy. It just sort of happens.”

“Course,” John muttered. “Why didn't I know that.”

“Because you're an idiot,” Sherlock supplied helpfully.

John only glared at him, and Sherlock shrugged.

 

When he glanced back at the man, he was gone, only his texting assistant left in his wake, the woman John recognized as Andrea. Or probably not, he supposed, since it was likely that wasn't her real name.

 

Instead, Lestrade strolled up beside Sherlock and clapped him on the back.

“Be nice if you included me next time,” he told the man.

“Yes, well, we were a little preoccupied,” Sherlock replied, fixing his shirt that apparently Lestrade had ruffled, or something.

Lestrade glanced at John. “Have you explained this to him?”

“I tried to, a while ago. He mostly thought I was mad,” Sherlock huffed. “I can't really blame him.”

“Hang on, so you knew about this?” John asked, pointing at Greg.

Lestrade looked away. “Sort of.”

“So, how much of this was true?” John asked, glancing between the pair.

“All of what I said,” Lestrade admitted. “But you were right about me not really needing to be here. The bridge incident was... overstated.”

John looked to Sherlock.

“Most of it was true,” he sighed. “But not all. I'm not telling you which parts though.”

John shook his head. “You know what this does to a man with trust issues, right?”

Sherlock snorted. “Oh please. You loved this.”

John smirked. “A little bit, yeah.”

“Suppose you'll need a place to live now,” Sherlock added conversationally.

“What do you mean?”

Sherlock smirked. “I know for a fact that Molly is ready to release you. Tomorrow, probably, but there's no reason why it can't be today, riding on the back of a high from catching a serial killer. And you have no one else to live with.”

John frowned. “I never said that. I could go back and live with Harry-”

“Because that ended so well the first time,” Sherlock interrupted.

John frowned at him. “It's the best I've got, so it will have to do.”

Sherlock shrugged and glanced away. “Or you could come live with me. I've got a nice flat in downtown London. Mrs Hudson, the head nurse, owns it. She's giving me a special rate, and together we should be able to afford it.”

“You're asking me to move in with you?” John gaped.

“Well, I haven't lived there yet, so it's more of a mutual move in thing. But essentially, yes.”

John shook his head. “After all you put me through in here, now you want me to come live with you?”

Sherlock's face fell slightly. “I suppose it is ridiculous if I think for very long-”

“Of course I will,” John said.

Sherlock gaped. “Really?”

“That's what I said. Come on, you can get your posh brother or one of his people to give us a lift there. Clean up your cheeks on the way. I am a doctor you know.”

“Actually, I was thinking we could eat first.”

John considered. “I could do that.”

“Dinner?” Sherlock asked.

“Starving,” John replied.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to say, this was one of my favourite stories to write. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did!


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